Chapter 20
JILLIAN DOESN’T COME HOME.
No one knows for sure where she went. Her phone is off—none of our texts or calls are going through. Or maybe she finally reached her threshold, blocked our numbers, and left. My parents, Julie, and Massimo sit at the dining room table, speaking in this awkward, hushed way. Like no one knows what to say or what to do. Julie is certain she went to stay at Camilla’s. She’s probably right. But everything feels off without her here.
Julie keeps saying “I had no idea.” Whether she’s talking about the promotion or Jillian’s cheating, I don’t know.
After taking a shower, I sit on the floor in the living room, my wet hair dampening the back of my tank top. My fingers comb through Mr. Chunks’s thick fur, which is suspiciously soft. He still hides under the couch all day, but he’s slowly begun inching forward. Now, he lies as close as he possibly can without actually coming out from beneath the couch. He purrs as I pet him, too, his vibrations buzzing through the floor.
“Still nothing,” my dad says from the dining room, dropping his phone to the table after another failed call.
I watch my mom place her hand on his. “She’s safe, honey. Julie was right—she probably went to Camilla’s.” But it doesn’t make the situation hurt any less. She’s supposed to be here with us, and we drove her away.
In my lap, my phone vibrates. For a hopeful moment I think it’s Jillian. But it’s only Suzy, asking to hang out tonight. can’t leave the house tonight, suz. long story, will explain later I text back.
That’s when I see iDiary , with that familiar red 100+ notifications badge on it. I open the app, searching for the familiar validation, the feeling of accomplishment that comes with using it. But I close the app before it even has a second to load. It just feels wrong now, like it’s been tainted after what happened with Jillian. I can barely stand to look at it.
I turn to Mr. Chunks, sinking my fingers deeper into his fur, remembering the look of defeat on Jillian’s face when she announced that she lost the promotion. The promotion that I willingly cost her. I remind myself it was the only way. How was I supposed to risk compromising my anonymity? I heard what Camilla said—she wanted my identity plastered all over the magazine’s front page. But even as I think it, the justifications feel empty. I’d rather lose the blog than lose Jillian.
A couple minutes later Julie sits on the floor next to me. “You were right,” she says, scratching the ultrasoft spot behind Mr. Chunks’s ear.
I don’t think being right is supposed to feel like this. “About what?”
“I shouldn’t have said anything. I should have left Jill alone like you warned.”
“You couldn’t have possibly known any of this would happen,” I say.
“I know,” she whispers. “But I could’ve handled it differently. I didn’t have to yell, I just— I don’t know what happened. You know me, Jackie. I don’t get angry like that. Ever.”
I place my hand over hers. “This isn’t your fault. She said horrible things, too. And honestly, if anyone is to blame for this mess, it’s me.”
I’m not sure if she’s genuinely surprised or is only trying to protect me once again. “Why would you be to blame?”
“I shouldn’t have said anything,” I say. “Jill was right—I should’ve gone right to her when I saw them kiss. I made everything worse by telling you. And now she thinks we whisper about her behind her back.” But we were only coming from a place of good. We wanted to help. That’s it.
Julie squeezes my hand, her eyes searching mine for an answer I don’t think I have. “I can’t believe she cheated” is all she says.
I sigh. “Me either.”
That’s the part that’s shaken me the most. That Jillian was the cheater, and that she let our family go on for years thinking Camilla was to blame for their relationship ending.
“I wonder if she knows,” I say, continuing my thoughts out loud.
Mr. Chunks is purring so loud it nearly drowns out my voice. “What?” Julie says.
“I wonder if Camilla knows that Jillian lied and told us she cheated,” I repeat, suddenly feeling an enormous amount of guilt press into me. All the times I averted Camilla’s gaze, ignored her attempts at small talk, treated her with anger for a crime she didn’t commit. Not to mention that she gave me a freaking job—and a good one at that. One that now, when it’s on the line, I realize how badly I don’t want to lose.
“I hope she knows,” Julie says. Mr. Chunks is swiping his paws out from beneath the couch, his nail snagging on her shirtsleeve. I watch her gently pry him off. “Either way, that’s their business. I’m not butting my head into their relationship ever again.”
“Agreed,” I say.
There’s a collective intake of breath when a phone rings. I feel the vibrations against my leg. It’s mine. My parents stand up at the table, looking at us from over the couch. “Is it her?” Dad asks.
My heart is racing in my chest, but it’s only Wilson’s name that flashes on the screen.
Oddly enough, the racing doesn’t stop.
“Not her,” I say.
Julie peeks at the screen. “Wilson? I thought he was pretty high up on your list of enemies. Why is he calling you?”
“Let’s just say some changes have been made to that list in the past few weeks,” I say.
“Oh yeah? And who’s on it now?” Julie prods.
“Currently it’s just Mr. Chunks.”
She gasps. “Mr. Chunks ? Why is my cat on your list of enemies?”
“I sat on the couch yesterday and he swiped at my ankle,” I explain. “He drew blood, Julie.”
“He must have felt threatened,” she says, quick to defend him.
“By my foot ?”
“Leave him alone. And stop calling him Mr. Chunks.”
“It’s catching on,” I say. “Even Dad’s been saying it.”
I stand, brushing cat fur off my clothing. “I’ll be back,” I say, trying to exit the room in such haste that I stub my toe on the leg of the coffee table. I double over in pain, swearing under my breath as my toe throbs.
Julie doesn’t say a word. She only watches me with the most amused look on her face—like she’s caught on to something I myself have yet to realize.
By the time I make it outside and sit on the bench, the call has gone to voicemail. My heart sinks somewhere beneath the porch. I quickly call Wilson back, this intense feeling filling my chest. Like what if I’m too late? What if the moment is up, and he doesn’t—
“Froggy... you’re alive.” His gruff voice floods me with warmth. I sink into the cushion.
“Unfortunately,” I say. My eyebrows scrunch up as I try to pinpoint the exact moment I stopped hating that nickname.
“Hey, save that dread for Monte’s.” There’s a soft rumbling noise on his end, the sound of him driving. “Wait. Everything all right?”
Before I can decide if the best course of action is brutal honesty or a downright lie, I find myself saying, “Not really. There’s a bit of a Myers blowup happening at my house.”
“Yikes,” he says. I close my eyes and let his voice press into me. “What did you do this time?”
It makes me laugh. “Probably best if we don’t talk about that.”
“If you say so.” Wilson fumbles over his next words. “I actually called to ask if you’re free right now? I’m driving home from work and have to run some errands for the store. Thought my partner in crime could come along and help plan that date for Kenz.”
The reminder of the date is like a bucket of cold water dumped over my head.
“So you admit we’re partners in crime?”
Wilson clears his throat. “I never said that.”
“You literally just did, Willy.”
If his voice sounded great over the phone, his laugh is in a whole other league. “Are you free or what?”
“Uhm.” I look back into the house. My parents are seated at the table, Massimo and Julie now on the couch. I can see the stress etched into their faces. I can join them and spend the night sitting in silence or help Wilson like I promised and secure that promotion. Suddenly the choice is nonexistent. Right now, I’d rather be anywhere but here.
“I’m free,” I say, chewing on the inside of my cheek.
“Great, because I’m pulling onto your street.”
I hear it then, a car coming around the corner. A pair of too-bright headlights illuminates the sidewalks and mailboxes. In a few seconds, Wilson’s car stops at the bottom of my driveway.
“What were you planning on doing if I said no?” I ask, staring at him through the car window as he pulls up.
He stares right back. “Firing you?”
I laugh. “Pretty sure that counts as wrongful termination.” I’m halfway down the driveway when I realize I’m wearing a pair of hand-me-down sweatpants that hang off my body and an old tank top that has been worn and washed so many times the fabric has worn thin.
The worst hits me when I’m too close to Wilson’s car to turn back. My hair is wet, curly, and about to enter that untamable phase where the frizz takes over my head.
I’m about to tell him to give me a minute so I can run inside, get changed, and do something about this hair. But then the car window rolls down and I notice the way he’s looking at me, and it’s no different from the way he usually does. There’s comfort in that, in the familiarity.
“What’s the holdup?” he calls from inside the car.
“I’m wearing pajamas,” I say.
One side of his mouth kicks up. “We can stop by Monte’s and pick up your costume, if that makes you more comfortable.”
It’s dark out, but I trust he catches my eye roll. “Very soon that costume will be retired, and you’ll regret ever making fun of me.”
“Doubt it.”
I run around to the other side of the car and step in. Again, it’s like stumbling headfirst into a little Wilson-scented bubble. His cologne hits my nose and I resist taking a deep breath to commit it to memory.
We sit side by side in the darkness, our faces illuminated in different shades of red and yellow from the dashboard.
“You look different,” he comments.
I’m very aware of his observant gaze flickering over my body. Goose bumps rise on the spots of bare skin his eyes take in.
“In a bad way?” I ask cautiously.
“No.” Wilson speaks slowly, deliberately, like he’s carefully choosing his words. “Not a bad different. Just, you know, different.”
He’s wearing his signature outfit: crisp shirt, pressed pants, everything so neat, except his windblown hair. These tiny details have grown so familiar to me, they barely register.
“Sounds like you’re giving me a compliment,” I say.
“Sounds like you’re delusional.”
We drive through the streets. It’s cool enough to shut the air-conditioning off and open the windows.
“It’s my hair,” I say, fidgeting with the wet strands. “It’s curly. I usually straighten it. So yeah. That’s probably why I look different.”
Wilson’s gaze lingers on my face two seconds too long. “You should stop straightening it.” He says it so causally, so easily. Like it’s a passing thought that can be released into the air without the words catching somewhere in my heart.
“So where exactly are we heading?” I ask to change the subject.
“I have to pick up some stuff for Monte’s.”
“I know that, but don’t we get deliveries once a week?”
“Yes, every Wednesday morning,” he says. “But we’re running low on some supplies that I can’t wait around for—cleaning products, toilet paper, printer ink, certain chocolate bars.” He pauses, cutting me a glare. I stick my tongue out. “And I thought we could pick up some stuff for the date with Kenzie.”
By the sound of it, Wilson already has the date finalized. “What did you have planned?” I ask.
“The heat wave is breaking this week,” Wilson says. I check the weather app on my phone, and he’s right—it is. “And I vaguely remember Kenz saying something once about a romantic picnic. Thought I could take her to Ridgewood Park.”
“I mean it’s no Central Park, but it’ll do.”
Talking about their relationship gives me this sinking feeling in my stomach. The thought of Wilson and Kenzie getting back together no longer fills me with relief, knowing I get my old job back, knowing my summer dream is on track. Now it just kind of feels... off. Shitty. Like I’ve lost something I didn’t expect to.
“Will you help me pick out some blankets and stuff?” he asks.
“Sure,” I say. At this point, I may as well officiate at their freaking wedding.
Ten minutes later we pull into parking lot of SmartMart—Ridgewood’s one and only supermarket, and the only place you can simultaneously purchase a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos and windshield wiper fluid. I follow Wilson around like a child, and we take turns pushing the cart. First we head straight toward the outdoor section. Wilson picks out a boring white blanket, and I replace it with a cute yellow one with hearts on it. We find this adorable wicker basket to store everything in—to which Wilson groans and says, “ Another basket?” I pick out some paper plates, cups and cutlery, a citronella candle to deal with the mosquitoes, and a pack of pastel colored napkins.
“I think that’s good,” I say, running through a checklist in my head. Wilson had already decided on getting takeout tomorrow afternoon before their date, so I think this is all we can prep as of right now.
When the date is handled, we continue into the food aisles. Wilson throws all the boring stuff into the cart, like whole wheat crackers and boxes of tea. I keep trying to sneak in different items without him noticing—sour gummy worms, chocolate-covered raisins, an absurdly soft blanket, a pack of bubble gum. Each time he gives me a disapproving look that teeters on amusement, then places the item back on the shelf in its exact spot.
I manage to sneak a bag of popcorn into the cart, which lasts for six minutes before his gaze narrows in on it like a police dog hunting out drugs. “What’s with you and junk food?” he asks, again returning it to the shelf.
“It’s the superior food group,” I say. He pushes the cart down the toiletry aisle and I hop on the back of it, grinning at him.
Wilson’s eyes scan the wall of hand soaps. “Your body is probably dying for a vegetable.”
“On the contrary,” I say. “A vegetable just might kill me. That reminds me— What’s going on with that new Monte’s menu you had planned?” I’ll mourn the day when our giant mozzarella sticks get replaced with sautéed veggies.
Wilson places an industrial-size container of soap in the cart. The lean muscles in his arm flex beneath the weight. “Still working on it.”
I draw my eyes back up to his. “What does that mean?”
“It means there are about two hundred things that are important. Once those are dealt with, I can move on to the menu.”
“What else is more important?”
“Upgrading our security features,” he says, adding another jug of soap to the cart. “Hiring more cleaning staff. Replacing those disgusting carpets with new flooring.”
I gasp. “No way! I’ve developed a deep emotional attachment to the stains on our carpet.”
He rolls his eyes. “My point exactly.”
Wilson pushes the cart—and me—down the aisle. Now we’ve made it into the pharmacy area. There are shelves stocked with protein bars, shakes, cookies, and powders that capture his attention for a few minutes. He grabs a few packs and throws them into the cart.
“So you get snacks, but I don’t?” I whine.
He’s reading the nutrition label on the back of one of the protein bar packs. “If you’re paying for your own snacks, go crazy.”
Well, that changes things. “I thought this was on the company card.”
Wilson laughs so hard he drops the box on the floor. “Company card? You mean my credit card?” He picks up the box, tosses it into the cart.
“Oh. Well, you should probably get one of those,” I offer.
Wilson snorts. “Thanks for the financial advice.”
“You know,” I say, “if you actually listened, I might have some good ideas on how to improve Monte’s.”
Wilson pushes us down the next aisle. “Is that so?”
“Yes,” I say, still hanging from the back of the cart like a child, even though I’m trying to be taken seriously.
“Let’s hear it.” He reaches for a pack of Advil.
“We need snacks,” I say.
“Jackie, you’re not changing my mind on the free vending machine idea.”
“This is a new idea!” I say, laughing at the same time. “Look—you gave us this new fancy break room. Right? It’s great and all, but it’s missing food. Stuff to actually eat on our break.”
Wilson veers the cart to the left of the store, heading toward the cashiers. “We have snacks. I pick up those muffins every morning.”
That makes me pause. I knew the muffins were somehow getting into Monte’s every morning, but I didn’t once think about how they were getting there.
“And we are very grateful for the muffins,” I say, “but by the end of the day, they’re a bit stale. Most times, there’s none even left for the closing team. Justin eats like, three a day.”
The cart comes to an abrupt halt. I stagger off of it, catching my balance on an endcap.
“ Three a day?”
“Okay, ouch .” I pick up a few deodorants I knocked over. “Wait. Don’t tell him I told you that. My point is we need more. Some nonperishable stuff. Granola bars, chips, cookies. Oh! Maybe some of those mini ice-cream sandwiches to put in the freezer?”
Wilson is fighting so hard to suppress the smile taking over his face. I watch his brown eyes light up like a flame. “Is this the next step in your master plan to get more junk food into Monte’s?”
Obviously, yes.
“No,” I lie.
Wilson sees right through me. “Hop on,” he says, nodding toward the end of the cart. I do as he asks. He pushes me through the store, returning to the snack aisle. I’m bursting with excitement, ready to be let loose. “Pick a few things. Jackie— a few .”
I don’t know if it’s the possibility of a future sugar high or the happiness in Wilson’s eyes, but I’ve never been so thrilled to wander down the aisle of a grocery store.
I opt for one of those chip snack packs that comes with four different flavors, chocolate chunk cookies, a pack of apple juice, and individual packs of trail mix. I think that’s healthy enough to please Wilson. I show him my haul. “What do you think?”
He surveys the cart, then gives me a thumbs-up. “Could’ve been worse.”
It’s the only stamp of approval I need.
On our way back to the cashiers I throw a bag of sweet-and-salty kettle corn into the cart, just because. If Wilson notices, he thankfully doesn’t protest.
“Those new ideas you mentioned earlier for Monte’s, were these yours or your uncle’s?”
“All mine,” he says. “My uncle wouldn’t have made any changes.”
“Why’s that?”
“He’s too emotionally attached to the way the store is now,” Wilson says. “I don’t think he ever would have changed a thing.”
“But you’re not attached that way?”
“Well.” He pauses. “I guess I am, yeah. But the only way a business will stay relevant long-term is if it changes with the times.”
“And that’s why you’re doing it?”
“I’m not changing too much,” he clarifies. “Monte’s will always be Monte’s. But it could be a bit cleaner, have better food options. Stuff that doesn’t come out of a freezer and go straight into the deep fryer.”
“That sounds terrible. Maybe you should relinquish control of Monte’s to me,” I say. He takes a corner turn too sharply and I knock into another display. This time it’s Oreos. “Hey! Watch it.”
He grins, as if it was on purpose. “One second you threaten to quit, the next you’re coming for my job. I can’t decide if you hate Monte’s or secretly love it.”
“Hate it,” I say quickly. “Deeply, deeply hate it.”
Wilson doesn’t look like he buys it. I’m not entirely sure I do, either. If I really hated Monte’s, I wouldn’t be spending my Sunday night running errands for the store or brainstorming new ideas to better it. But the more I consider it, I don’t think it’s Monte’s that’s beginning to grow on me.
No. The answer is much, much scarier.
“What?” At the cashier, Wilson pauses with the soap jug midair. He’s watching me, a funny look on his face. Or maybe I was watching him first.
“Nothing,” I say, quickly looking away.
We fall into a rhythm of stacking items on the conveyor belt. Of course he’s brought his own reusable bags. I bag the items and place them in the cart while he pays, and we head back outside. Wilson presses a button on his car keys, and the trunk pops open. We stack all the bags inside. I’m assuming we’re going to leave now, but he takes a seat on the edge of the trunk and pats the spot beside him. I follow his lead and jump up. My feet dangle off the ground. His reach it.
“I’m going to take a guess here and say you’re not a fan of people eating in your car?”
Wilson rolls his eyes at me, nonetheless turns around to dig through the bags and pull out the popcorn I thought I snuck in. He tears it open and hands it over to me. “Not a single crumb, Jackie.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
I happily munch away, offering the bag to him. To my surprise, he digs in, and we sit there in silence, covered in semidarkness, eating popcorn in the trunk of his car.
“You have good ideas,” I say after the silence has settled for a little too long.
He sighs. “I don’t know how many of them are actually good.”
“What does that mean?”
“I want Monte’s to change. But I don’t want to change it too much. I want it to always be and feel like the place my dad loved.” He kicks at the ground with the toe of his shoe over and over again.
I nudge my shoulder into his. “Changing the menu and replacing the flooring won’t erase him from it.”
Then the most unexpected thing happens. Wilson leans his shoulder into mine, and he just... leaves it there.
“I know,” he says softly. “It’s an irrational fear, but it’s still a fear.”
I hand him the popcorn. He takes another handful.
“So start slowly,” I say. “Don’t make too many changes at once. Start with the security system and see how that feels. Then keep moving your way up.”
“You’re just full of good ideas tonight, huh?” he asks, his eyes piercing mine through the darkness. It doesn’t sound sarcastic either. It almost sounds like a compliment. And it’s dangerous, how badly I want it to be.
“I’m full of great ideas every night,” I say. I yank the bag of popcorn back, smiling to myself. Wilson’s shoulder is still touching mine, spreading this toe-curling warmth throughout me.
“You know...” I begin, staring down at my shoes. “It’s really cool that you have Monte’s. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I still think that place is totally lame, but just having somewhere to be, somewhere where you have a role and responsibilities, with people counting on you—it’s really cool.”
“You think so?” he says, sounding taken aback.
“I do,” I say. “I guess I’ve been struggling with that lately. Like, finding my purpose. Finding what I’m good at. I haven’t even applied to college.”
“I know tons of people who haven’t applied to college,” he says.
“Okay, Mr. Popular,” I tease, smiling up at him. “Thanks for saying that. I just... it’s really scary to be staring down at the rest of your life, especially when everyone expects you to somehow know exactly what you want to do with it. It’s cool that you do know. I wish I had that.”
Wilson nods. He looks at me like he gets it, gets me . Like he would sit here patiently, forever, while I lay my heart bare.
“I get it, really,” he says after a moment of silence. “It was different for me. I have Monte’s. I was basically born into the business, into this life that has already been mapped out. Don’t get me wrong—that isn’t a bad thing. I’m grateful, and it really helped take a lot of pressure off of me. But... Well, I guess I thought I’d have more time, too.”
“More time?”
“I always knew that someday I’d take over the family business. When my uncle got sick, it felt like someone hit fast-forward on my future. All of a sudden someday become today . I left school not really sure when I’d be back, I moved back here, wrecked my relationship, and it was all expected of me. I guess I thought I’d have more time before my life got taken over by Monte’s.”
“But you love Monte’s,” I say, confused. “You’re good at running Monte’s.”
Wilson laughs. “I’m glad it comes off that way. Most of the time, I have no clue what I’m doing.”
If I were walking, that sentence alone would stop me in my tracks. “You’re not serious.”
“Completely serious,” he says with an easy smile. “But it’s good to know I pull it off so well.”
“But you’re Wilson. You’re Wilson with the ironed shirts. You wear the same pants every day. You carry around a clipboard, for goodness’ sake. You’re telling me you’re like, confused ? Like the rest of us?”
“Kind of concerned that you hyperfocus on my wardrobe, but yeah, Jackie. I’m confused. I’m a nineteen-year-old running a freaking business. How could I not be?”
It feels like I’m looking at him in an entirely different light. “I had no idea. You hide it so well. You always seem so put together, so...” I trail off, my brain still struggling to catch up with the realization that Wilson isn’t some business mogul. He’s just... like the rest of us, trying to find his way.
“I’m scared about fifty percent of the time,” he says.
“And the other fifty percent?” I ask.
“I have you in my office, busting my ass, making me feel somewhat normal.”
A smile pulls across my face. It must be contagious because Wilson is smiling, too.
“So what I’m hearing is that me annoying you is actually a good thing,” I tease. “Dare I say it’s good for your health? Should I do it more ?”
At that, he laughs.
It feels like a win.
“You do it just the right amount.”
We stare at each other long enough that I have to look away. I’m scared that if I look at him for too long— Well, I’m not entirely sure what might happen.
“How long exactly are you stuck here running Monte’s? How long until you can return to school? To your life?”
He shrugs. “No idea. Just until my uncle is healthy enough to take his old job back, or they find another Monroe to run it permanently. Probably half a year, at least.”
“Then you have options,” I say. “At least you managed to escape Ridgewood for a short time.”
His eyebrows knot together. “You want to leave Ridgewood?”
“I do.”
“And go where?” he asks.
I shrug. How could you possibly choose when the option is anywhere ? “I don’t really know. I’m still figuring out the whole college situation, so that may be a deciding factor. Maybe California? My best friend, Suzy, is moving there. Or New York City seems cool, too. I know they have a lot of great schools. But you live there, so yuck.”
I laugh when Wilson sticks his tongue out. “It’s a big city,” he says. “You’d never have to see me if you didn’t want to.”
“But what if I want to? There has to be someone in that city ready and willing to annoy you at all times.”
Leave it up to me to ruin all sentiment with a stupid comment. But the realization still lingers: we both might end up with futures that take us out of this town.
“Hey.” Wilson knocks his knee into mine. “About what you said before, with your future and college... You’ll figure it out. I know you will. You’re the most determined person I know.”
That surprises me. “I am?”
“Well, most determined to hate your job, but yeah, it still counts.”
I smack him very gently.
“And if you don’t, or if it takes a bit longer than you planned,” he says, “Monte’s is always here for you.”
I pretend to shudder. “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”
“Oh—here. Take this before I forget.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a Twix bar, stuffing it into my palm.
I don’t know how long I sit there staring at it, but when I look up, Wilson’s eyes are waiting for mine. And they’re different this time, too. His eyelids are heavy, shadowed by the dark brush of his eyelashes. In a moment so brief it almost escapes me, I swear his gaze drops down to my lips.
“You got me another one,” I say, swallowing a lump in my throat. I don’t remember him grabbing it off a shelf, or even paying for it.
He shrugs it off. “It’s your favorite.”
“Yeah. It is.”
Maybe his eyes never looked down at my lips. But right now, I can’t stop my gaze from dropping straight down to his mouth. Those sarcastic, tilted lips that hand out smiles like they’re a rare currency. I’m so overwhelmed with the urge to move closer, be closer, stay closer to him that I can’t even think straight. I’m so aware of Wilson and the space he takes up beside me that I can’t recognize anything beyond the two of us, anything more than this car and the way our feet dangle off the back of it—his on the floor, mine midair.
The Twix wrapper crinkles in my hand.
He remembered.
Not once, but twice. He remembered twice.
His voice is as soft as satin when he speaks. “You said earlier there was a fight at your house?”
The mention of the fight shakes me out of the moment. I reluctantly pull away from him.
Right. Jillian leaving. It’s the first time I’ve thought of her since he picked me up. I’ve never met anyone who makes the bad moments fade, not the way Wilson does.
“There was, yeah,” I say. “We don’t have to talk about it.”
“We can,” he says. “If you want to, that is.”
I don’t know what to say. I don’t know if I want to talk about Jillian and what happened earlier, or if I want to make a home out of this serene bubble we’ve created around us.
But suddenly I realize: I want to share the details with him. Maybe it’s the cover of darkness acting like a safety blanket, or maybe it’s the way we have somehow become friends these past few weeks. Somehow we’ve moved far away from the two kids who mocked each other at Monte’s. Now we’re walking a very thin tightrope, and I’m unsure what waits for me on the other end—or what waits for me beneath if I decide to fall.
“Jillian and my other sister, Julie, got into this big fight,” I explain. “And I was kind of in the middle of it.”
“What were they fighting about?” He asks it in a way that makes it very clear I can answer or choose not to.
I explain the situation—Camilla, the cheating, the years of lies, finding out that Jillian was the real cheater after all. Wilson sits there and listens. He never interrupts, never passes judgment. He only holds the popcorn for me as I speak, the Twix bar still in my hand.
“They have this almost passive-aggressive sibling rivalry,” I explain, a detail I’ve never shared with anyone. Or ever said aloud, for that matter. “Like, Julie is the perfect daughter, and Jillian is the secluded, moody one who can never be like her. Does that make sense? No one has ever said that. And believe me—none of us actually think it. But sometimes it seems like Jillian really believes it. She believes she’s the lesser twin. Like Julie is the better half.”
Wilson is nodding, as if the information is slowly sinking in. “After what happened tonight, are you worried she’ll believe that even more?”
“Yeah,” I say, somewhat surprised that he pulled the thought directly out of my head. “That’s exactly what worries me.”
“Have you called her?”
“Her phone is off,” I say. Or she blocked my number and wants nothing to do with me.
“Hey.” Wilson places his hand over mine. For a split second, I don’t even dare to breathe. “I met Jillian twice,” he says, “and she seemed like someone who doesn’t need anyone’s help.”
I smile. “She comes off like that. But I think it’s all an act. I think she does need someone—maybe she’s always needed someone, and we never saw it.”
“As an only child, I’m probably the worst person to look to for sibling advice. But if I were Jillian, I’d probably want to cool off and have everyone leave me alone.”
“You think that’s all it is?” I ask.
I feel the slightest pressure from his fingers. “I do.”
At this point I’d be surprised if the Twix bar hasn’t melted completely in my hand. “Well, she should be at work tomorrow, so we’ll see what happens then.”
Wilson cocks his head to the side. “You’re scheduled to open at Monte’s tomorrow.”
Oh shit. “Uhm,” I say, pausing. “So, it looks like I need tomorrow off, boss.”
Old Wilson is back, rolling his eyes and looking completely irritated by me. “I’ll figure it out.” The time on his phone reads 10:15 p.m. Wilson stands and stretches his arms above his head. “We should probably head back.”
At that, the exhaustion from the day creeps in. “Please.”
I must be more tired than I thought. When I go to jump out of the trunk, I misplace my footing and begin to topple over. The ground is rising very, very quickly and I’m anticipating how many scratches are going to cover me tomorrow morning, but the impact never comes. Right before I can face-plant into the ground, I collide with a very solid chest, one that belongs to a very solid guy whose very solid arms are wrapped around my waist.
A tiny “Oh” escapes my lips.
This time, when I look up at Wilson’s face, I know exactly what he’s staring at—my lips.
And his face is so close I can count the freckles fanning across his nose.
“Thanks,” I say, my voice completely breathless.
“Careful, Froggy,” he whispers.
I may have forgotten what my actual name is.
The moment multiplies around us. The darkness, the gentle summer breeze, the sound of cicadas flying overhead, the beating of my heart pressing too urgently into my rib cage.
Forget the popcorn and the snacks and all the other items I piled into the cart. What I really want is something I haven’t even dared to think about. And from the way Wilson’s face is inching closer, I’m filled with the blinding anticipation that maybe, just maybe, he wants it, too. Maybe our—
A phone rings. We both yell, jumping apart like we’ve been caught committing a crime.
In a flash, Wilson’s phone is in his hand and Kenzie’s face pops onto the screen. It’s like a bucket of freezing cold water has been dumped on both of us.
I notice the exact second reality crashes back in, the exact moment he shuts down whatever it was between us that didn’t get a chance to happen.
“Answer it,” I say. What I want is for him to throw his phone across the parking lot.
Wilson silences the call. “She’s probably calling about the picnic. I’ll text her later.”
He doesn’t even look at me, just shuts the trunk and walks straight to the driver’s seat.
It feels like I’m in some sort of trance. My feet pull me forward to the car. My hand clips in my seat belt. My brain is still somewhere in the parking lot, trying to imagine a future where Wilson kisses me, trying to understand these feelings swarming inside me.
“You think she’ll like the picnic?” Wilson asks once we are driving down the street.
“Uhm.” It takes me a moment to catch my footing, to ground myself in the harsh reality of what’s going on here: Wilson is trying to get back with Kenzie, the person he loves. And I am the fool who offered to help.
“I don’t see how she couldn’t,” I say, my voice sounding far away. “It’s a good start for you two to sit down and talk. See if getting back together is on the table.” Even as I say it, I desperately hope the answer is a big fat no.
Somewhere between making that deal with Wilson and this very moment, I’ve come to the complicated realization that I don’t really want Wilson dating Kenzie. In fact, I don’t think I want him with anyone that isn’t—
Well, anyone that isn’t me.
I want the sarcastic comments and the stupid, trivial arguments. I want what we’ve always had. But now, I think I want it in a new way.
“Let me know if you need help setting up.” As soon as the words are out, I instantly regret offering. Do I really want to hang around and help Wilson create the perfect date for another girl? And I’m supposed to, what? Make a quick run for it before she arrives? Hide in the trees? Walk home in shame?
“Will do,” he says.
The entire way home, we don’t speak. Wilson doesn’t bring up the almost-kiss, and neither do I. It’s probably for the best. He’s trying to win back the girl he loves. And I’m just the girl trying to mend his broken heart, even if it means breaking my own in the process.